


Royal Ties

by strainedpatience



Category: South Park
Genre: "We're getting the gang back together again!" plays in the background, (very light and off-screen), Additional tags to be added as they apply, Angst, Big misunderstandings, F/F, F/M, Humor, Kidnapping, Kyle-centric (sort of), M/M, Psychological Torture, Slice of Life, South Park: The Stick of Truth, Stick of Truth AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-29 02:25:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15062987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strainedpatience/pseuds/strainedpatience
Summary: It's been 7 years since half of South Park Elementary took part in a game that would change their whole summer.  The Stick of Truth was something created to waste away the lazy days, something to laugh over, a way to be someone else, if only for a few days.  At the end of it all, however, was it really just a game?The gang gets wrapped up in something far beyond the level of elves and sticks when someone mistakes Kyle as a real royal figure and makes the worst of it.  The game is set and the flags are out; will they be able to keep up this time?





	Royal Ties

**Author's Note:**

> The "everyone's older now but they're still playing SoT" AU that no one asked for.
> 
> Comments/Critique are always welcome! This is my first SP fic so help is more than welcome!

Kyle had seen a lot of things happen at their usual cafeteria table.  He had been witness to jokes, group ridicules, the rumor of that particular day, and even the occasional fist-fight, but this, without a doubt, was new.

He squeezed into the crowd around the table, in-between Craig Tucker, who wasn’t the strangest person to see squished among the masses, since he visited their table on and off, and Clyde Donovan, who _was_ a stranger to the table, since most of that table’s jokes and antics made him cry.  

He swayed slightly but was kept upright by pure force of the shoulders pressing against him.  He hadn’t had the best day so far, diabetes low included, and all he really wanted was to be able to sit down with his friends and get some food into his system so his ears would stop ringing and his hands would get feeling to them again.  Fate, obviously, had other plans.

His lunch tray hit the table pointedly as he kept firm in his spot between the rest of the sardined kids.  One or two extras was one thing, but from his perspective, it looked like half the Juniors of South Park High was crowded around the table with varying expressions and an even greater range of responses, some vocal, and some in the form of nods or eye-rolls.

“Dude,” he finally started, “What the hell is going on.”

His eyes locked on to none other than those of Stan Marsh, the current center of attention at the table-parade.  Or, at least, that’s how it appeared until Marsh held up the real reason everyone was crowded around one junky piece of rectangle metal; a large book with all of their names signed on the front, and signed years ago, judging by the level of scribbling and ink smear in each name.

If Kyle wasn’t wrong (and he normally wasn’t) those signatures looked identical to how they signed their names as kids.  As Juniors they were far better at, well, everything, now, handwriting included. That wasn’t to say he didn’t still recognize every name on the cover like it had only been written yesterday.  He reached out and let his finger trace against the area where his own name was drawn in black; a scribbly attempt at almost-cursive, still pretty impressive for his age.

Stan lowered the book again; this time closer to where Kyle could see its contents once he opened it back up.  “My mom found it while she was cleaning out the garage,” he beams, as though it’s the greatest archeological find since the dinosaurs, “It’s that scrapbook she made back when we were all in the 3rd grade.  You know...the one everyone said was _stupid_.” He glanced around the room with a pointed gaze before continuing, “It has a lot of our adventures in here, but most of it is from that game we used to play.  The uh...Oh, fuck.” Stan stares blankly between two pages as the gears in his mind go to work. “The...the stick game.”

“The stick game?” Kyle repeats with a raised eyebrow.  
  
Cartman, who had been making comments about each picture through mouthfuls of mashed potato, pointed to a jagged-cut, red paper bannered, glue-sticked picture of himself in his grand wizard’s outfit.  “Yeah, Kahl, how could you forget this awesomeness? I was the king, you know! I guarded that stick.”

“ _That stick_ ,” Kyle once again repeated, eyebrows bent and brow creasing in frustration now, “That’s really all you can give me?”

 

“It wasn’t a stick, was it?”  Butters, from the far left of the table, interjected, “W-Wasn’t it a staff, or somethin’? A wand?”

 

“No Butters you idiot!” Cartman lashed, “It was just a _stick!_ ”

“It wasn’t _just_ a stick.”  Eyes turned to Craig who, if they hadn’t known him better, might have looked like he was bored of the whole charade.  He was still here, though, and that said all the words his expression couldn’t. “It wasn’t just a stick.” He repeats, now that he has everyone’s attention and obviously won’t be able to shake it before he continues, “It was _the_ stick.  The Stick of Truth.”

There’s a collective string of “Ohh”s and nods among the group as everyone’s memory swims back into focus from where it had been lost in the past few years.  It baffled some of the group that it could be so easily forgotten; after-all, the game they had played wasn’t just a simple game in the end. It was far more than that.  It was dragons, it was traitors, it was suffering at the hands of many, and it was the best memories of their lives.

A few pages were turned before someone in the group stopped it with a pointed finger beside another picture; this one detailed Stan and Kyle side-by-side.  Stan had his arms on his hips, triumphantly, as a still-too-big cape hung off of his back and sagged against the floor. Kyle had his arms up in the air as Sheila crouched beside him with a needle in her right hand and a wad of the elf king’s robes in the other hand.  The picture beside it showed a frozen scene of Kyle with a snicker on his face while Stan pouted across from him, and the third photo was blurry from motion.

“Kyle’s mom nearly stabbed herself with the needle because Kyle kept moving around too much,” Stan supplied when the students’ eyes found the last picture, “He was cracking a joke and let his arms fall right as she tucked the needle and, dude, it was like World War III.  We had to make a run for it.”

He follows up with, “Still, I think my mom did a pretty rad job with my costume.  Especially since _my_ costume wasn’t made of an old bathrobe and my mother’s yellow drapes.”

The table snickered and pages began to turn again, but Kyle wasn’t letting that one slide.  “The embroidery on my robes was made of the finest silk in all the land,” he mocked with a faux-fantasy tone to his voice, “I’m sorry you’re upset just because I have rich fabrics and you had to use a dog blanket as your cape.  Really, though, I think it’s fitting. You were practically a guard _dog_ yourself, after all.”

The table erupted with “Ooooh”s and more snickers as Stan shrugs it off.  “So what? The cape was given to me by my loyal companion right before I left the...dens?”  A portion of his cocky tone plummets as he fights to recall exactly what his past in the game was.  Raised by wolves stood out above the rest; did that mean he was born in a cave? It made the most sense, for now, so he planned to stick with that until proven (or reminded) otherwise.  “What companion did you have, again?” He hums devilishly, “Or was your only ally the steelhead of a golf club?”

The book had stopped moving around the table, now.  All eyes rest between the two as the fire in Kyle’s eyes grows, then disappears, replaced easily with mock-hurt.  A hand is placed on his heart and he quivers, “Why, I thought at the time I could call _you_ a companion, Marshwalker.”

“Dude,” Cartman pipes up again as he pats Stan half-heartedly on the back, “That’s harsh.”

“Oh, grow up.”  Stan replied to both of them.  He found it difficult to defend himself.  He went through not most, but _all_ of their second game as the elf king’s ranger and personal guard.  He couldn’t make any refutes that he wasn’t also a companion. It was a K.O.

A few more pages were passed by with different reactions to each one.  A grunt out of Craig when someone pointed out a picture of the cunning thief, a giggle, then a hum, when someone teased Kenny for his ‘phase’ of being a girl throughout the whole thing, a few jabs at Butters, a couple remarks about Jimmy, the Bard, a handful of taunts for the wizard king (all of which summoned disgruntled expressions and swears from the boy of subject), and as lunch slowly came to an end so did their nostalgia trip.  The group eventually disbanded, one by one, until only the usual gang was left at the table.

Kenny shoved his empty tray forward so it knocked into Cartman’s, evoking a sour, tormented response from the other, exactly what Kenny was looking for.

While they were busy bickering Stan pushed the book across the table so its dusty cover slid right into Kyle’s hands.  “There’s something on the back cover, next to the last page. We made that little pocket to hold stuff in, remember?” He waited until Kyle followed lead and pulled the back cover open to reveal a pocket with some spare change, a handful of plastic crystals, and an old, neatly folded note he didn’t quite recognize.  “I already read it,” Stan says, albeit sheepishly, “I didn’t know what it was. I think, maybe, you wrote it right before we stopped playing, and you slipped it into the finished book without any of us noticing.”

Kyle, of course, had no recollection of this; he wouldn’t put it past himself, though.  This kind of secrecy was right up his alley. He opened up the note with cautious, but quick fingers and scanned over the words carefully.  His cheeks flushed just enough to be noticeable as he folded it back up again, or tried to. Stan’s hand was on top of his and pulling the paper away from his grip before he could get rid of the evidence.

 

“You were going to give all of it to me?  Command of the entire thing?” He asked, a fond tone to his voice, eyes wide with shock, but still somehow soft, “The whole kingdom?”

 

“Well, I certainly wasn’t going to give it to my good companion, the golf club.”  He retorted with a huff. He ripped the letter of inheritance out of Stan’s hand again.  It had been meant only for emergencies; a will, of sorts, if the king were to ever perish in battle.

 

His fingers delicately folded it once more after eyeing the paper one last time.  His gaze lingered on the signature at the bottom longer than the rest of the letter; a name written in ink across the dotted line, signed simply, “The King”, a phrasing he would regret in the future. 

The bell rings, signaling the end of their lunch period.  Kyle stands and tucks the note into his jacket pocket before Stan can steal it back.  It was never used, anyways. They had stopped playing their little game less than a week after he had thought to write it.  Superheros became the new game of the century, if he remembered, and their memories as warriors, mages, and kings was long forgotten.

Cartman is the first to leave after tossing his empty chip bag at Kenny’s head.  Stan gives Kyle a disappointed, kicked-puppy look (he really wanted that paper back) but relents after a teacher gives them the stink-eye and starts off to find his next class.  Kyle moves away from the table and has to catch himself on the edge of it as stars dance in his vision for a second--a second just long enough for Kenny to take notice. The boy steps closer with an outstretched hand to help, but Kyle waves him off, faking a smile as he regains his balance.

“Just stood up too quickly.”  He says.

Kenny isn’t convinced, but he doesn’t have the time to ask questions.  By the time the bell is at its last call Kyle is gone.

 

**-**

 

“Stood up too quickly, my ass.”  Stan scoffs as he treads down the busy school hallways.  “Is that all he said? He knows he’s supposed to tell someone if it’s more than that.”

 Kenny shrugs.

 “I mean, _really_ , we’re best friends, he knows he can tell us; _hey guys, I’m feeling a little fucked up right now, can you give me a hand?_ But no, _no_ , he has to handle eeeeeverything himself!”

 “God, Stan,” Cartman sneers, “What are you, his mother?  So what if he didn’t eat enough; that’s his own damn fault.  Just makes one less jew at the school.”

 Stan shoots him a glare over Kenny’s head before returning his gaze to the hall in front of him.  “I should have said something. I knew he was too busy going over the book with us to get a decent meal in, but--”

“You forgot,” Kenny mumbles behind his parka, “It happens.  And it’s not like it’s your job, either.” He turns while keeping up the pace and pokes Stan harshly in the chest, “I don’t see a ‘Diabetes Watch’ badge on you, so, guess that means you’re not to blame.”

Stan grumbles a bit, but finally relents.  Cartman, on the other hand, continues the conversation with a new agenda at hand.  “I hate when he’s sent home early just as much as you, Stan,” he poses and waves off the glare Marsh shoots him, “because then _I_ have to hear about it later on.”  

Cartman puts on his best (or worst) impression of Kyle.   _“Cartman, I missed half a day’s worth of class! Cartman, I didn’t get to take any notes! I’m going to fail and then my miserable little jew life will be over, noooooo_ \--Ow!  What the _fuck_ , Keeny?”

The blonde pulls back from where their elbow had lodged itself into Cartman’s side.  “I took notes for him. We can drop them off on the way out.” Stan looks skeptical, so Kenny sighs and corrects himself, “Alright, one of the kids in the front row took notes and I weaseled them when he wasn’t looking, happy?”

“I always knew you were a thief Keeny--Ow, hey!”

Kenny huffs, his arm still threateningly raised as if to show he wasn’t scared to do it again if Cartman opened his mouth one more time.

“You live on the other side of town, though.” Stan sighs and lets his eyes settle on the papers in Kenny’s hand.  “I’m two doors away, I’ll drop them by myself.”

Cartman lets out a shrill, cocky whine, “You sure you don’t just wanna go see your boyfriend so you two can make out and make gross, gay jew babies--”

All it takes is a single heated glance from Stan before Kenny’s elbow comes down again, this time between Cartman’s ribcage.  A wheeze escapes Cartman as he hits the floor and, for some reason, neither of the other two boys can find it in themselves to stop, and they head out the door without him.

 

**-**

 

He had expected a lot of things at the Broflovski house;  Kyle’s dad out shoveling in the front yard, a few kids running by, maybe even an ambulance on the really bad days, but not this; never, _ever_ this.

The breath left his lungs in the few seconds it took for Stan to take in the sight of police cars.  It was getting dark, by now, and the maroon color of the sky went eerily well with the lights as they swiveled and flashed in front of Kyle’s home.

When he gained control of his legs again he bolted forward.  An officer stopped him with a hand to Stan’s chest, but Sheila waved him through.  Her makeup was smeared, her hair a mess of tangled frills from pulling and twisting and curling the ends around her finger like she was doing now; anything to keep her hands, or really, her mind, busy.  “Do you know anything?” She asked with a too-desperate voice, “Anything at all, Stan?”

He shook his head almost numbly.  He was still taking in the scene, his eyes wide, his fingers twitching with anxiety because something was wrong, wrong, _wrong_.  “What happened?”  He asked hastily, “Where’s Kyle?”

“We were hoping you would know.”  Sergeant Yates rounded the corner and gave Stan a once-over.  “He was sent home early from school based on what Mrs. Broflovski told us.  Is this true?” Stan nodded. “And after that, he missed the bus, so he texted his mother that he would be walking home.”

Sheila shakily held up the text of subject on her phone so Stan could see it.  He tsked in distaste; Kyle knew he shouldn’t be walking home by himself, not after a crash like that. 

“He never made it home.” Yates continued.

Stan felt his heart hit his ribcage. “Is he…?”  The words were like sandpaper to his tongue, rough and dry and terrible.

 “He’s not dead...as far as we know as of this moment.”  Stan deflated with relief, albeit barely enough to keep his heart in one rhythm.  “That text is the last form of contact that was exchanged, and, seeing as it’s been hours, now, since he supposedly left the school…”

 Stan shook his head to clear his mind of any thoughts that drove too far into the deep end.  “No, no, I’m sure he’s okay. Maybe he fainted somewhere--you know, like, along the road? Did we check along the road?”

 Yates exchanged a look with the other officers and Stan hates everything in his expression; pity.  “We did,” he began, “And we found reason to believe that his going missing was no accident.” An officer hands over a plastic evidence bag and Yates holds it up.  Through the soft light of the setting sun, Stan can make out Kyle’s cell phone; or, at least, what used to be considered one. It was smashed to pieces, broken beyond repair.  It was dented, not akin to that of a car, but rather like someone had taken a hammer or a steel-toed boot to it; it was done intentionally.

 Stan felt his heart sink into his stomach.  Somewhere across the street, Cartman could be heard getting home and yelling about all the commotion, but their voice was distant and fuzzy.  His vision began to swim, his palms sweaty. This couldn’t be happening.

 Yates handed the bag to a colleague and brought the radio to his mouth, “Send an official alert out,” he ordered, “Kyle Broflovski is missing.”


End file.
